Sunday, May 8, 2011

Poetry Jam: Where I'm From

I mentioned that I'm taking an online poetry course and one of our assignments was to write a "Where I'm From" poem, based on George Ella Lyon's poem and website. I decided to focus on food, thinking that would narrow my topic. Instead, I wrote 4 pages of ideas, which took a long time to narrow down to this still very long . . . let's call it a poetic list.

Food: A Life Story, or Where I’m From

I’m from asparagus poking up at me, watermelon lolling around, cornstalks “as high as an elephant’s eye” in Grandad’s gardenI’m from family eating together:

the bright-red pot containing my mom’s beef-and-potato hash

Mom’s battered roaster holding my favorite pot roast every time I came home from college

counting out snowmen and star cookies when Mom and I baked for the holidays

turkey and dressing for Thanksgiving and Christmas, ham for Easter

I’m from a handwritten note from Mom in every bagged lunchI’m from campfire cooking (and singing) with Girl Scout friends—s’mores, banana boats, hobo stewI’m from waiting for the ice cream man with my next-door neighbor on a hot Houston dayI’m from talking all night over a box of fudge-covered Oreos with my best friendI’m from college bonding over midnight bean-and-cheese runs and cheesecake by the riverI’m from studying abroad:

tart yogurt with honey near the sunbaked ruins of Greece

dark chocolate with cookies for casse-croûte after excavating in the 114F Tunisian summer

the best gelato in the world, near the Pantheon—zabaglione, pistachio, nocciola “con panna”

crusty baguettes with butter and cheese every meal of my Parisian weekend

worst meal ever, under most beautiful view of Neuschwanstein Castle

afternoon tea--oh, clotted cream!--with friends in a manor house in the British countryside

I’m from we met in grad school, over my breakfast of a diet coke and a bagelI’m from newly in love and eating out in Chicago: Japanese? German? Delicatessen? Middle Eastern? Swedish? Deep-dish pizza? Hot dogs? Mexican?

I'm from liking almond horn cookies, then finding a recipe, losing it, mourning it, and rediscovering itI’m from teaching my beloved to bake, long distance, and setting off the fire alarmI’m from sobbing over burnt candied orange peels in a ruined pot

I'm from giving tours with Chinese platters, American syllabub cup, Felix Gonzalez-Torres's pile of candyI’m from traveling with my beloved

fish boils in Wisconsin

beignets in New Orleans

cornish pasties in London

peanut soup at Gettysburg

apple dumplings in a bag on a farm somewhere

the best hot dogs are grilled at the World Trade Center plaza

historic open-hearth cooking in Indiana, Connecticut, Massachusetts

drying off from a drizzling rain in a tearoom in York

walking down Fifth Avenue to the promise of corned beef at Carnegie Deli

I’m from Christmas is . . . Teuscher trufflesI’m from mozzarella, prosciutto, balsamic, and bread to welcome the MillenniumI’m from making gumbo to comfort us in the pain of September 11I’m from eating with my in-laws:

the flopping fish in the cooler is about to be dinner

being the only white person at dim sum

learning to negotiate chopsticks, with witnesses

mango sticky rice

the ritual foods of Chinese New Year

mooncakes every fall

talking food with my gourmand brother-in-law

I’m from cornbread must be made in a cast-iron skilletI’m from “Is that roux the right color, yet?”I’m from reading the Julie/Julia blog real timeI’m from becoming a vegetarian because of the horse killed at the Kentucky Derby 2008I’m from Frappuccinos and chai are the secret elixir of new motherhood . . . of twinsI’m from playgroup bonding over lunch and jars of baby foodI’m from learning to cook for my family

no soy, wheat, dairy, eggs, or nuts when the kids were little

the crockpot is my best friend

blogging all my recipes online

surviving the pickiness of preschool

picnics under the Japanese maple as soon as it’s warm enough to sit outside

Wilton cake classes to make the kids’ birthday cakes

play food restaurants and mudpies stirred with sticks

packing lunchboxes with notes, just like my mom

I’m from watching my beloved’s summer-grilling production, waiting for grilled pizzaI’m from excitedly putting out bowls the night before for snow for ice creamI’m from helping my daughter sell Thin Mints and Samoas on a Saturday morningI’m from eating homemade:

All of the above and more, I post about my experiences nourishing myself and my family physically, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually, particularly as my family and I adapt to a back injury that has limited my abilities and activities. Email me at mommyhungry at gmail dot com.

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